


A Brief Gestalt on 9:31 Dragon

by ghostwise



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Multi, Other, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 04:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15878181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwise/pseuds/ghostwise
Summary: Or rather, a series of vignettes exploring Mahariel's relationship with each of his companions.





	A Brief Gestalt on 9:31 Dragon

**Alistair**

Mahariel distrusts him the longest.

At first glance Alistair is immature and unreliable, with his empty reassurance and poorly timed jokes, so it takes Hamal some time to understand that this is Alistair’s means of coping. Over those first days spent traveling together he proves that again and again; always facing down a bad situation with a wry comment, his smile belying his own worries and fears.

Alistair reaches out to him, and gets pushed away. But he doesn’t resent him that, and this frustrates Hamal most of all. Patient Alistair, kind Alistair.

He wishes he had accepted his friendship sooner.

One day shortly before the Landsmeet, he and Alistair go to the nearest tavern, and converse for a time. They discuss strategy and contingency plans, and all the events of the past year.

“Y’know,” Alistair says suddenly, when the conversation ebbs, and the severity of their situation leaves them staring into half emptied cups of mead. “You… you don’t give yourself enough credit. We would never have made it this far without you, I think.”

Hamal grins. “With the way the nobles are riling up, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s good,” Alistair insists. “ _You’re_ good. Agh,” he covers his face with his hands. “I’m not talking politics, I mean—you’re my best friend, you know?”

Hamal looks up, wide eyed, and Alistair continues. “I know,” he says, holding up a hand. “Please let me finish. You looked out for me after Goldanna, and you’ve saved my life more times than I can count. You act like a brat sometimes but you treat me like… like I’m worth listening to… like I know what I’m doing.”

“You do know what you’re doing, Alistair,” Hamal says.

“Half the time, I don’t,” Alistair laughs. “But right now? I do, and it’s thanks to you. I know we have had our disagreements, and I may not be _your_ best friend. But you are mine. I wanted you to know that. With everything going on, I worried I wouldn’t find the time to say it… these things don’t just come up, after all.”

Hamal stares. And stares. And after a moment he groans and lays his head on the table. “Ughhh.”

“It’s okay!” Alistair laughs, well used to Hamal’s aversion to his particular brand of sentimentality by now. “I said it, and now we can forget about it and move on-”

“Alistair!” Hamal snaps, and the other man falls silent.

Hamal takes a deep breath, looking at him, bracing himself for what he is about to say.

“You’re my best friend too.”

Hamal had never heard Alistair squeal in delight before now—but nor had the others in the tavern. It was a day of many firsts in that regard.

**~~~**

**Morrigan**

Theirs is a friendship that defies convention, hard to describe and hard characterize. And being that they are both similarly contrary individuals, Morrigan and Mahariel wouldn’t have it any other way.

One evening around the fire Wynne describes them as being “in cahoots,” and they laugh at that together. Morrigan doesn’t even shove him off when he leans against her shoulder, their typically prickly interactions eased by fatigue and drink. But it hadn’t always been this way.

It starts simply because Hamal is a pathetic wretch who needs help.

Morrigan can see it plain as day. However, unlike Alistair, who is too heavy handed to approach Hamal’s shattered heart without making a bigger mess, Morrigan takes a practical attitude that Hamal cannot shoot down or freeze out.

“You are forgetting your sunblock ointment,” she snaps.

“It smells bad,” he counters, his milky white skin a truly pitiable shade of red.

“Alistair bought you a fine hat to cover up with, yet you refuse even that. You know your condition makes you sensitive to the sun, you’ve lived your whole life with it—yet you refuse to take preventative measures. Why should I help you then? You won’t even help yourself. What a fool.”

He grumbles, but eventually relents, and he lets her dab medicine on his face. He scowls, but he accepts Alistair’s wide brimmed hat, purchased from a merchant in Lothering.

And when Morrigan realizes Hamal cannot sleep at night, can barely stand during the day, she scowls and yanks him to his tent. “You will sleep,” she insists. “What good are you if you cannot fight?”

“I can fight,” he mumbles. “Just nightmares.”

“The Archdemon?” she asks. “Alistair is a Grey Warden too, is he not? He wakes up with nightmares often. So why-?”

“Tamlen,” Hamal says, exhausted. “Keep having nightmares about Tamlen.”

Morrigan simply scowls, falling silent at that. She does not know what to say.

But if comfort is hard for her to offer, there are other things she can do, and so she uses magic to ease his night terrors. It helps.

He takes care of her too. He is willing to confront Flemeth for her. He travels back to where their journey began with his fury and his promise, and only half the information, and Morrigan regrets not telling him more.

But the fact is, she simply does not fully understand Flemeth.

Try as she may, she cannot unspool the complex plans her mother has set into motion. She does not understand her mother, she does not understand the Warden, and all the things they want from her.

Hamal finds a set of robes in the hut, and their magic is dark and twisted, and saps the energy and will of those around it. The robes of possession are quickly examined, then burned in the fire that night.

Hamal sets a hand on her shoulder.

She does not feel worthy of this friendship. She will make her way there in her own time, but for now, all she can do is wait for the day when she can return it in earnest.

**~~~**

**Da’len**

It is hard to lose a companion brave and bold such as she was. After fighting for so long at her side, Da’len understands death with remarkable clarity. He understands that it has claimed her, and that it is fast approaching for him. He accepts it, with the single-minded drive of an animal who has reached his time. He will pass on, and rejoin his master, wherever she now walks.

But suddenly that changes. Another appears, one who speaks kindly in Elven to him.

The man has also lost a companion. This Da’len knows, almost instinctively. They are together in illness, together in grief. Hamal even knows not to give him a new name—he already had a name, after all, a fine name given to him by a woman he should have followed into the Beyond. So, Hamal calls him simply, Da’len. Little one.

And after the great battle that follows, Da’len seeks him out, knowing his scent.

From that day forward, Da’len is at Hamal’s side. He learns Elven commands and sports new kaddis patterns, inspired by the wandering Dalish clans.

Maybe death will come another day. Da’len still misses his first master. But, he thinks, she and the Warden Mahariel would have been friends. And wherever she is, she must be glad that he found another to protect.

  
~~~

**Sten**

Sten is quite apart from himself, in the weeks following the loss of his Asala. He exists as no man ever should; without a sense of self, without his companions. Images of death replay in his mind’s eye, and he does not question them or push them away. It is only right to be reminded. In Qunlat there is a word for this kind of living: Asala-taar.

He senses something similar in the elf.

They do not speak much, which is a relief.

But eventually Hamal does ask.

“What were you doing in that cage, Sten?”

Sten pauses, and he does not look up. “Sitting,” he says simply.

“Sitting,” Hamal repeats, watching him. “As you are now?”

Sten looks up at him grimly.

“So how is this sitting different from that sitting?”

Sten narrows his eyes.

“… Well, I am glad we are sitting together now at least.” He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, and Sten watches him, feeling a bit as if he is being engaged in a social interaction that he is not quite equipped to handle.

Normally he would be content to let the conversation lapse into silence. But something compels him differently this time.

“Why?” he asks finally.

“Because you say what you mean, and only speak when necessary,” Hamal says instantly. “It’s refreshing. Although I do find many things puzzling about your behavior.”

“What is there to be puzzled by?” Sten asks. “I am a simple creature. I like swords, I follow orders. There is nothing else to know.”

“You like swords?” Hamal exclaims, voice hiking up an octave or two, and Sten has to hide a jolt of surprise. “How about that! I like swords too. Never would have guessed, had we not had this talk!”

Sten hums, but apparently that was not the right response, because Hamal is emboldened to scoot closer.

“Sten, you should train me,” he says. “I have no experience wielding a blade, yet, through some truly unfortunate process of elimination, I am the one who is expected to lead us to victory.”

Sten hums again, longer this time, a tense sound. Where is this going?

“I am very small, you see,” Hamal says, “And I cannot swing a sword. I am _dreadfully_ put upon. See my dilemma?”

“… I will train you,” Sten agrees. “We start now.”

“Great! Wait— now?”

“Yes. Now.”

What it comes down to is this: Sten joins them without pretense, straightforward and honest, and because of that Hamal feels at ease around him. He proves to be a fine student, and over the months learns not just swordsmanship, but Qunlat, and even verses from the Qun, which grab his attention and calm his troubled heart.

It is a unique friendship… even more so when the feeling becomes mutual.

A friendship that will shape the fate of Thedas.

  
~~~

**Leliana**

Mahariel is a curiosity to her, someone new and exciting. That is probably why she is so eager to get close to him—and probably why she crams her entire foot in her mouth, figuratively speaking, and offends him on just about every level possible.

“You are not at all savage,” she says, and she is joking, really. “I’ve not seen you snatch away women and children without provocation.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” Hamal asks blankly.

And oh, it’s all downhill from there. Eventually all she can ask is forgiveness.

But it’s not so simple as that.

Even if she did not mean to offend, these are things he hears all the time from others who mean every word; the words do not become softer coming from a would-be friend.

They do not talk again. She feels terrible about it, but she does not push, and instead examines her own actions, and why she should not have said what she’d said.

Meanwhile he is happy to keep her at arm’s length. And from what Alistair tells her of his past, he has every right to seek his solitude.

One day, when they go to Denerim, she notices him falling behind the group, caught up in listening to one of the city’s many street performers. Leliana is happy to see him smiling, for once; he seems to like the song, an old ballad, carried in a strong and beautiful voice.

When it is over, he tosses a coin into the musician’s cup. “Very pretty,” he says. “Can you play that one again?”

The woman looks up at him, and her face twists up in a way that Leliana recognizes.

“Not for some knife-ear from the woods,” she sneers, before gathering up her things and leaving.

Hamal just stands there, and watches her go. Leliana cannot see his expression, but she sees the way his hands clench up just a little, his shoulders dropping minutely.

Anger, hot and startling, crosses her heart and makes it beat a little louder.

“Your voice is reedy and your music sucks bollocks!” she shouts after the woman, all but stomping over to Hamal, who looks annoyed now. “The nerve!” Leliana seethes.

“I’m used to it,” he snaps.

“But you shouldn’t be.” Leliana grimaces, now chiding herself for reacting so quickly. “Listen… I’m  _really_ sorry…”

“We should keep going.” Hamal mutters, already turning away.

Maybe they’ll never get along. But that’s okay.

That night Leliana picks up her lute and plays the same song. Across the fire, she sees Hamal rolling his eyes, but also the way he listens and smiles.

  
~~~

**Wynne**

When they meet in the Circle Tower, Wynne recognizes Mahariel instantly. She had come across him in Ostagar, sick and dying, and had offered him her cowl to keep the sun off him. It is a surprise to see him now.

But he does not recognize her, so she does not mention it.

After the miraculous survival of the Circle, Wynne finds that she wants to keep fighting. That her purpose is now tied to the Wardens and their quest.

She offers her magic, but also her counsel.

And Hamal, never recalling their first meeting, is never quite sure what it is about Wynne that inspires such familiarity in him. He does not wish to patronize, as if she were some grandmotherly figure, here to listen to his angst. But she reminds him of Ashalle, who he misses desperately.

“I’m never going to have a normal life, am I?” he laments one day. As usual, Wynne takes his sadness in stride.

“No, you won’t,” she says simply. Then, carefully she continues, “Being a Grey Warden is in your blood now. You cannot escape it, Hamal.”

“I’m no fool; I know that,” Hamal sighs. “And I’m not trying to escape.”

“Good. But, you still wonder sometimes, don’t you? If your life would be better if you weren’t who you are.”

Hamal looks at her, already dreading this conversation.

“… No?” he says, and Wynne laughs at the blatant lie.

She motions for him to sit closer and listen.

“I would not fault you if you did. I was a little like you, when I was young,” she tells him. “I was fifteen when I realized that the Circle would be my life, and that I would never experience all the things that others took for granted—family, love, a simple life. Those were all denied to me. It was… difficult to bear.”

She looks at him, and is touched to see how his eyes have softened; a depth of compassion that not even he is fully aware of.

“I started hating my life, and myself,” she admits, for the first time. “Have you… ever felt that way before?”

With anyone else, the question might have felt like a trick of some sort. But, this is Wynne. Hamal regards her for a moment, and then simply says, “Yes.”

“That is normal. I know it is difficult, but you must be patient with yourself. You will not always feel this way. You’ll find peace, in your own time.”

“That may be,” Hamal says, wary. “How did you make peace with it, Wynne?”

“It wasn’t easy. In fact, it took a long, long time. One night I found myself in the tower’s chapel. I must have been weeping, because the revered mother came out to speak with me. She told me that the Maker puts us all on our paths for a reason… and fighting our intended course is what causes us so much anguish.”

“No offense, Wynne,” Hamal says, “but that sounds like something they tell all the mages, to keep them complacent.”

“Oh, I thought she was full of rubbish,” Wynne laughs. “But, as the years passed, I began to see some truth in her words. She taught me that you can find your family in the people around you. That you can love your work and find fulfillment in duty. And that there is joy in self-sacrifice.”

“How is that?”

Wynne smiles. Had this conversation taken place at Ostagar, she is certain he would have just scoffed at her. It warms her heart to see how much he has changed already.

“Simple. If you put others before yourself, then their well-being is yours, and their happiness is your happiness.”

“Yet, the Chantry seems to care not for your happiness at all,” Hamal says. “The Templars nearly called for Annulment. How is there any joy in that?”

Wynne inclines her head, inviting him to speak further.

“It is like my clan,” he says boldly. “My clan’s wellbeing is my own, so I will do what I must for them, even if it costs me personally. But Wynne, my clan _loves_ me,” he says. “They would not ask me to sacrifice what I cannot bear.”

“Even if the situation demanded it?”

Hamal grows thoughtful for a time. He looks at Wynne, and something flashes in his eyes.

“Just… please, do _not_ sacrifice more of yourself than you already have. You have so much to give others… promise me, yes?”

Wynne laughs at his response. She’d thought this conversation was meant to reassure him, not the other way around. And so she promises. Promises to stay, to do what she can for those she cares about, for as long as she is able to.

  
~~~

**Shale**

Hamal is full of questions for Shale. Where did it come from, how was it made, does it remember anything before being a golem? Absurd! It would never expect to remember anything before being an elf, after all.

“Why is it so interested?” Shale asks after a while. “Does it not tire of prattling on?”

Hamal laughs, unoffended. “You’d be surprised,” he says, and Shale pushes back a slight fondness. But Hamal hums and continues speaking.

“Some time ago, we were facing a very powerful demon. We were in the Circle Tower. Me and a few of the others had become trapped in a Fade nightmare… like a maze, built of dreams and spellwork,” he explains. “I managed to escape—but to do so I had to become something else.”

Shale feels itself growing bored. “Hmm,” it intones deeply.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Hamal agrees. “Anyway, as I was saying… I still don’t understand what happened. I spoke with Leliana and she recalled something similar. She took on the consciousness of a Templar who had been trapped in a burning tower. And I spoke with Wynne; she became a spirit, otherworldly and powerful. And I became…” Hamal shakes his head. “A golem. I cannot explain it; it was like this other identity came upon me. But I was not unlike myself. I was still me, with my own memories, but I was also this golem, and I had his memories, too.”

Now that _is_ interesting. But Shale scoffs, not willing to admit it. “It must have been some strange trick,” it says.

“It felt so real, though,” Hamal says. “And I was not able to shake the feeling that remained after we escaped. I felt horribly for that golem. I remained… curious about the experience. I had never seen a golem before that, after all.”

“So it had a bad dream. Does it help, to ramble pointlessly like this?”

“A bit!” Hamal nods. “Thank you, Shale.”

“Finally, it is done talking…” Shale sighs.

But despite it all, it wonders. There were golems in the Circle Tower… had it ever been there, too? Where else had it been? It wonders. And in its wondering finds a faint hope, like an echo of a life lived long ago.

  
~~~

**Oghren**

Oghren asks for a moment, but he suspects it might be longer. The sky stretches far above him; it’s disorienting, not just because it is unfamiliar, but because his eyes are desperately trying to read some boundary where there is none. Try as he might, he cannot convince the part of himself that wants to pretend there is only a big blue polished slab of stone above him.

Hamal waits patiently. He seems content to wait, too; after so long underground, he is even more photosensitive than usual, and has donned a curious little mask, with slits for him to peer through.

“Forgot what it smelled like…” he says, voice full of wonder, and he breathes deeply.

“Smells like shit,” Oghren grunts.

“You should feel right at home,” Hamal says. “You sure you won’t miss Orzammar, Oghren?”

“Eh… who knows. Flies live in piles of dung, but I bet they miss it when they’re gone, right?”

“Sure,” Hamal says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Listen I’m sorry I screamed at your wife and called her a horrible bitch.”

“She shouldn’t’ve done Hespith like that,” Oghren shrugs. “Or her House. Or you, or me. Sod it…”

Hamal snorts. He waits a moment longer before asking, “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Oghren says, and walks away from the only life he’s ever known.

  
~~~

**Sandal and Bodahn**

They keep to themselves, always setting up a distance away from the main camp, never quite seeking out anyone’s company. Hamal can see why; the roads are dangerous, lurking with threats, and the Grey Wardens are not exactly popular these days. Still, their arrangement is mutually beneficial. Protection in exchange for supplies.

Bodahn leaves sometimes, to locate more stock. He has connections here and there, and a keen sense of intuition that tells him where to salvage equipment and medicine. It’s not always a safe journey.

During these times, Sandal is left alone.

And during these times, Sandal grows curious and bored.

“Enchantment?” he asks Sten one day. But Sten pulls his sword away and shakes his head.

“Not this,” he says. “Find something else.”

“… Enchantment?” Sandal looks pointedly at Hamal’s blade.

“Why not?” Hamal asks, handing it over. “I don’t quite understand the sort of enchantments you do, but can you make it lucky?”

Sandal nods, smiling, fingers wiggling.

“Great!” Hamal exclaims. “Make it strike terror into the hearts of our enemies!”

Sandal doesn’t have any enemies, but it sounds like a fair plan all the same. He knows the proper runes and gets to work, and Hamal is pleased with the results.

It’s not just enchantments. Sandal takes interest in Da’len, and asks permission to play with him; shyly, as if expecting to be rejected.

But Hamal quickly agrees, showing him all the makeshift toys Da’len has gathered.

“He found this piece of rope by the lake. He likes to pull on it—make sure he doesn’t knock you over.”

“This doll kind of looks like Alistair. I think he took it from Morrigan’s pack, but keep that between us, alright?”

“Da’len loves sticks. Just toss it—see?”

Over time, these little exchanges grow into trust.

“You know, I daresay, the boy rather enjoys your company!” Bodahn notes one day.

“We’re friends,” Hamal agrees. “And he’s been keeping Da’len entertained.”

“Da’len?” Sandal asks, immediately perking up.

“He is asleep now. He can play more tomorrow,” Bodahn says.

“Oh. It’s late,” Sandal notes, nodding.

After he drifts off to sleep, Hamal shares a few words with Bodahn.

“Things will be getting rather dangerous soon. Are you sure you don’t want to take you and your boy somewhere safe?”

“I can think of nowhere safer than here,” Bodahn says. “The Blight is everywhere, after all. But here, we are doing something useful about it. We’ll stay; as long as you’ll have us, that is.”

Hamal smiles and nods. “Then we shall continue traveling together.”

“In the hopes that this Blight soon ends,” Bodahn says, “And that the roads may be safe for my boy again.”

  
~~~

**Zevran**

Zevran watches him for a while.

Not to any particular end; it’s only that he is living past his expected lifespan, treading new and unforeseen territory, when really, he should have died during that sorry excuse for an ambush. So, not knowing what to do now, he simply watches.

Warden Mahariel is a bit of an enigma to him.

Zevran gathers this much: Hamal is a capricious force, just as liable to snap in anger, crack a joke, or sneer a sarcastic response. He cares for dogs—all animals, in fact—and is kind, if awkward, around children. He is a master with his bow and arrows. He is not quite as good with swords yet, but he practices with Sten and with Alistair, until he is exhausted and bruised. Zevran likes watching him particularly during these times.

He’s a hard man to kill; probably would have survived even if Zevran  _hadn’t_  gone into that fight with an active death wish.

And he’s handsome. And likable. This last realization strikes him the most. Calloused hands and broad shoulders and his loud, loud voice, tattoos, piercings and all.

It is not love. It will not save him. But after months of not feeling anything other than grief and self-loathing, the recognizable glimmer of attraction is a welcome development.

Hamal surprises him, too, turning down his offer of his services. Essentially giving him the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ talk.

“Zevran, I told you the first time; you need not pledge anything to me,” Hamal says. “I am Dalish. We do not do that. No obligations, alright? You’re with us now, and that’s enough.”

Zevran regards him carefully, then, grins, wide and mischievous. “Oh, I rather  _like_  you,” he admits. But just like his services, even his flirtations are initially shot down. Not for a lack of interest, either. Hamal definitely likes being complimented by him, yet he keeps away all the same.

“What Morrigan said—about getting in my good graces—you know that I would defend you from harm, even if we weren’t already friends, right?” Hamal finally explains.

“I believe you,” Zevran says. “Yet, for some reason, you don’t believe me! Acting as if I needed to be convinced to want to kiss you.”

He blushes at that, smiling, and it’s the brightest thing Zevran has seen in Ferelden.

But if Zevran initially read him as being bashful, he soon loses that idea, days later when they are walking alone down a wooded lane, and Hamal takes advantage of the solitude to drag him up against a tree, kissing him earnestly, hands already fumbling at his belt.

The Warden surprises him, that’s all. And he surprises him later, with poetry; with Antivan leather; with a pair of gloves; and again after that, accepting a gold earring with a heavy heart; and again when he returns from battle, bloodied, but gloriously alive; and again and again…

Zevran thinks he will be surprised by this for the rest of his life. And he rather likes that.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to challenge myself to write something for each of his companions. It was tough! And I pointedly left out a few OCs and other background characters who played a part in Hamal's journey.
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed learning about this goober you can look at his face here, I draw him quite a lot! http://ghostwise.tumblr.com/tagged/oc%3A-hamal-mahariel


End file.
